


Thank God For Small Miracles (or Something)

by Vrunka



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackwatch Era, Feelings, I am trying to learn how to write these two sooo, M/M, angst???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: The mission was pretty much screwed from the start. Gabe dwells and Gabe thinks and Gabe tries to just heal. Small miracles, right? They happen all the time.





	

Gabriel cups his hands beneath the faucet. Hisses at the cold sting of the water against the burned skin of his palms.

A small inconvenience.

He doesn't want to turn the report in. Not this one. Not this time.

But it's part of the job.

He's steeled himself for it. He's gotten used to it. Or least he tells himself he has.

The water fills his hands, cool and clear. Spills over the sides, trickles through the seam between them. It splashes against the metal of the basin. Gabriel closes his eyes.

He will turn the report in because it is his job. This time. Every time. Morrison will scold him. Morrison always does.

Jack doesn't get it.

Jack never will.

Gabe parts his hands, clenches them into fists. The skin pulled taut across his palms. Pink and raw. Already healing. Looking better than it had a few hours ago.

Thank God for small miracles.

Or something.

He should visit McCree in the med ward. He should type up the condolence letters. He should rest. He should train.

He goes to see Jack Morrison instead.

Plucking at the wounds that will not heal.

He knocks on the door to the Strike Commander's office with hands that are good as new, too new. Soft, un-calloused flesh. He tries not to think about how this office should have been his.

Jack answers the door.

Dark rings around his eyes. Mussed hair. Jack Morrison in private; no poster boy face here.

"Came for debriefing," Gabe says.

Jack licks his lips. Eyes fluttering shut. They both know what it means when Gabe doesn't do it in writing.

"How many?" Jack asks.

"Three. Almost four."

"Who?"

"Does it matter?"

Jack Morrison, Golden Boy of Overwatch, has the gall to look scandalized.

"Can I come in at least then?" Gabriel asks.

Jack swallows, glances down the hall. Left and right. He steps back to let Gabe in.

Locks the door behind him.

"Who?" Morrison asks again, sitting at the desk now. It should be Gabe's desk. It should be Gabe sitting there getting this report.

This fucking mission.

Jack Morrison couldn't run an operation like Blackwatch. Too soft for it. Like the new skin of Gabe's palms. Too tender. Easily bruised. Jack Morrison's ego couldn't handle these losses.

And that, at least, feels like a small victory. A shard of glass between Gabe's ribs, sharp and shredding a horrible.

Morrison is still waiting for an answer.

"Douglass. Filimore. Chung."

"Dead?"

"Wouldn't be reporting if they weren't."

Morrison curses under his breath. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Elbows on the hardwood of the desk. Gabe could play that role too, pretending to care so much. Acting like the losses mean something to him.

Following these motions.

"What happened?"

"Ambush. Intel was wrong. Or they knew something we didn't. Could be a leak. Could be a coincidence. SNAFU either way. They're dead though, for what it's worth. Ours, theirs. Almost everybody. Managed to bring one of them in."

Morrison watches him. His blue eyes catching the light, gleaming. "Can't torture an Omnic for answers."

"Not an Omnic. None of them were."

Morrison looks down and away. Ashamed. Red-faced. They're soldiers, it's what they do. The desk must have made him forget that.

"And the fourth?" Jack asks, looking up again. Studying Gabe's face. Gauging his reactions. Analytical. Detached.

"McCree. It's bad, but he'll live."

"And you?"

Gabe shrugs. Can't help the ghost of the old smile that flickers across his lips. "When is it ever us, Jack? We get spared this shit."

Morrison doesn't correct his use of language; not the curse, not Jack's name. They're both too tired to worry about such breaks in rank.

There's no one else here to see them. So what does it matter?

"Have you written the letters yet?"

"Wasn't sure the official statement. I don't need you down my ass over misplaced sentiment."

"What happened?" Jack asks again.

Liquid fire. Rising like a wave. The writhing bodies of his men, caught in it. Covered in it. Fire wrapped around them like cellophane. The skin of McCree's arm, cracking, bubbling.

"Napalm."

"Nobody uses that stuff any more."

Gabriel bites his lip. Digs his teeth in. This is why he didn't want to do this. Jack Morrison, Strike Commander, telling him what didn't happen.

Jack seems to realize it. Looks down at his hands. Fingers laying across stacks of paperwork. 

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "You know how it is."

The only thing Gabe has ever wanted from Jack Morrison was an apology. But here, between just the two of them, it feels hollow. Fragile.

He isn't apologizing for the right thing. The right reasons.

"Sure I do, Commander."

Morrison catches the tone, frowns. "Don't be like that."

"That an order?"

"Does it have to be?"

This isn't the old days. This office and that title and these missions have changed everything.

They are not who they were.

"You gonna dismiss me? Write me up?" Gabriel asks.

"Insubordination isn't a joke."

Gabe chuckles, humorless, rubs his fresh hand across his cheek. Stubble rough against the skin. "Fuck off, Jack."

"Reyes, you--"

Gabe stands, hands spread on the desk, leaning over Jack's form. Paperwork beneath his hands, shifting, crumpling.

It was always going to come down to this.

Building to a head.

Too much past emotion, falling to pieces between them.

They come together violently. Crashing. Shattering against one another. The desk between them, Gabe's hips pressed tight to it, bent at the waist to reach Jack's mouth.

He pushes the papers off Jack's desk, sends them scattered to the floor. He ignores the protest Jack starts to put up at that. Swings his legs across the desk to press Jack tighter against him.

The motion of spreading his legs around Jack's hips is second nature. Rutting his crotch up against Jack's thigh.

It has come to this many, many times before.

And each time, Gabe hopes it will fix something, heal them, bring them back to what they were.

It never does.

But maybe this time it will.

He wraps his arms around Jack's neck, fingers in Jack's hair. Jack moans against his mouth.

Same as in the SEP.

Broken, keening little sounds. Needy, wanton things.

Everything is the same; nothing is the same.

Everything is different; nothing is.

Gabe pushes up against the sturdy wood of the desk. It only protests slightly, a faint shifting groan of wood. Gabe stands. Breathes against Jack's cheek, his lips, into his mouth. Trying and failing at regaining some composure, some measure of control here.

There was a time when he would have burned the world down for Jack Morrison.

Gabe swallows; touches Jack's cheek with his hand. Peach fuzz against his palm. If Morrison notices the differences in the once-calloused skin, he doesn't mention it.

"What are you doing?" Jack asks. He licks his lips. Pretty and pink and shiny.

They don't do soft and gentle any more, haven't for a long time. Gabe sighs through his nose.

The imperfect edges of them catch and cut, grind against one another.

Jack touches Gabe's wrist. A little glimmer of the boy from the SEP.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

He actually sounds concerned. It's something.

Even if his question is unanswerable.

"Are you?" Gabe asks.

Jack shrugs. His thumb digs against Gabe's pulse. He shakes his head. "We never should have started this."

"You mean now?"

"I mean ever." Jack looks away. Tightness around his eyes. Glaring at the ground.

He isn't wrong.

"I miss being your friend," Jack says. "I hate that you hate me."

Gabe closes his eyes. Slides his thumb along Morrison's lip. Skin catching. Jack has chapped lips, tender patches.

"Shoulda thought of that before you took the job then," Gabe says. Mildly, considering the bite it could carry. Gentle enough that Jack flinches against him. All the more painful for it.

"You gonna let me fuck you?" Gabe asks.

Jack breathes against his finger. Nods in Gabe's hands. "When have I ever said no to you?"

He never has. Not back then, not now.

"Strip then, Commander. I wanna watch you prep yourself."

Jack steps away. There's a series of filing cabinets along the walls. Jack opens one of the drawers, digs around.

Gabe catches the bottle of lube when it's tossed at him. A tiny thing, travel-sized; never been opened. Gabriel rips the seal with his teeth as Jack shrugs out of his coat. Slips his turtleneck over his head.

The material, sleek and black, shimmers in the low light of the office.

Jack drops it onto the floor.

Gabe watches the shift and coil of Jack's muscles. He's bigger than when they started. They both are. Super soldier shit keeping them cut like twenty year olds.

Jack kicks off his boots. Tugs down his pants.

He's wearing boxer briefs in the colors of America. Little Stars and Stripes. Real fucking patriotic.

Like a joke.

Or maybe it is the joke.

Gabe doesn't know.

Jack shucks them off with the same vicious passiveness. A violent lack of anything.

He holds his hand out.

Gabe passes him the lube.

Jack isn't even hard. Gabe's not either. Lost the thread. The spontaneity of it.

They'll see it through to the end though.

And nothing will change.

Or it will change for the worse. Decay more between them. Rot further and further from the sweet, stupid thing they once had.

Jack braces his hand on the desk, arches his back. Shifting shoulder muscles, his traps like iron. Blunt fingers sticky and slick with the lube. He pushes one into himself with a grunt.

Gabe brushes his hand down Jack's spine. Presses tight against each bump of his vertebrae. The muscles loosen under his touch.

In the old days, he'd be praising him.

For now, Gabe just kisses Jack's shoulder. Jack looks at him, eyes half-lidded. Starting to feel it again. Body reacting. He adds a second finger; shudders when Gabe curls his hand to rake his nails down the cut of his back.

"You can help," Jack says. Low and heated, words shoving between his teeth.

Gabe rubs a fingertip against where Jack's two are currently buried. The thin skin there, sensitive. The extreme angle of Jack's wrist.

"It's better when you help."

Gabe grabs the lube, adds more over Jack's fingers. Pushing his middle finger around the rim again, just to feel the way Jack sighs and pushes back against him.

"Please."

"You don't have to beg, I gotcha."

True to his word, Gabe lines his finger up, just above Jack's own. Presses it in with a swift little jab.

Jack hisses, arches his spine further, head tipping back. Throat working over a groan. His Adam's apple quivering in his throat. Gabe licks the skin there, the gathering sweat. Nips at the pulse beneath his lips, right under Jack's jaw.

Not hard enough to dent or bruise. Barely enough pressure to even acknowledge.

"Just fuck me, Gabe," Jack says. His eyes are closed. Fingers barely working alongside Gabe's as he thrusts it in and out.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

They have barebacked before. Nothing new. No lasting, lingering request out of love.

It's not about feeling better or closer or anything.

Jack wants this over as badly as Gabe does. Gabe can read it in the way his elbow shakes where it holds his weight off the desk.

Gabe undoes his pants just enough to pull his dick out. Doesn't even undo his belt, just shoves the bulky material halfway down his thighs. Underwear and all.

Gabe spreads some more lube over his cock, three quick jerks of his wrist, keeping him hard, slicking him up. The push into Jack's open body does the rest.

The tight squeeze of it.

Gabe bites his lip, blows his breath out from between his teeth. Sharp sounds. A contrast to Jack's low-pitched groan. The hollow, grating moan from down in Jack's chest. Pushed out of his lungs as Gabe slides deep.

Gabe bends at the waist, hips against Jack's ass. Clothed chest against Jack's back. Hand on Jack's chin, one on his shoulder.

On Jack's fucking desk that should be Gabe's.

Always should have been.

"I don't hate you," he says.

And Jack shudders and sighs. Eyes still squeezed shut. Mouth an open little 'oh' at the friction and the heat and the stretch he must be feeling.

"I don't hate you, Jack."

"Shut up. That's an order. Just move, fuck me."

He would have burned the world down for Jack Morrison once.

Now he just bites his lip, follows orders.

Fucks into Jack's tight, wet heat with an uncalled for roughness. Powerful, uneven thrusts that have Jack's head bouncing against the hardwood of the desk. Groaning each time, moaning and shaking.

Jack is loud, always has been.

Gabe claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. The keening, rolling sounds. Jack bites at the flesh of his palm.

It hurts more than it should.

Pinpricks of pressure on the newly formed skin.

Gabe grunts, adjusts his grip on Jack's shoulder to shove into him harder.

Not even pulling out anymore, barely at least. Just pulsing his hips as deep as he can go.

If it's that roughness or the fullness or the decided wrongness of the whole thing that makes Jack come, Gabe will never know.

But something sets Jack off.

His muscles contracting around Gabe's cock. Shaking and fluttering to his very core. Gabe grits his teeth. Rides Jack's orgasm. Doesn't resume his brutal pace until Jack has all but melted around him. Torso flat on the desk, panting against Gabe's hand. One arm at his side, one trapped under him.

Gabe waits. Twitching just the littlest bit. Body impatient to reach that same crushing pinnacle.

"You okay?" Gabe asks. Chin hooked over Jack's shoulder. Lips against Jack's cheek.

"Are we ever okay?"

"Probably not."

Jack swallows, nods. "I'm fine. Take what you need. You can't hurt me."

It's not true.

They hurt each other constantly.

There is no fix to it. No remedy. No miracles. Just nothing.

Gabe straightens, hand coming to rest at the small of Jack's back. Holding his down as his other hand presses Jack's hips higher.

He thrusts into Jack's body, powerful, jack-rabbiting thrusts. Uneven with how close he is. It doesn't take more than a few. Jack groaning and overstimulated beneath him, ass clenching weakly around Gabe's cock.

Gabe pulls out. Jerks his hand against his cock, once, twice, then he's coming all over Jack's back. Jack's ass. The curve of Jack's thighs.

He steps back, collapses into Jack's chair. The wheels creak. He rolls back before stopping himself.

Jack is watching him.

Covered in sweat and come.

An appealing sight.

But nothing is better.

Three boys from Blackwatch are still dead.

The mission was still a colossal failure.

And at the end of it all, Jack Morrison will still be the Strike Commander. He isn't sorry for that.

Gabe doesn't know if Jack is even capable of being sorry for it.

Gabe tucks his dick away. Doesn't bother to wipe the excess lube and come from it. He has to shower any way. And then he has to write those letters.

"So what's the official statement?" He asks.

On the desk, Jack stirs. Gathers his arms under him to sit up. His knees shake just the tiniest bit as he gets his to his feet.

"You're asking that now?" he says. There's a chuckle somewhere in his tone, humorless and dry.

"You giving me a pass on the debriefing report then?"

Jack swallows. Shakes his head.

"Bunker fire. Form letter. They died before seeing the line of duty. A tragedy. You know the script."

"Heroes in their beds. Real cute."

"Write whatever you want then, Reyes. Blackwatch is your baby. Your monster. I don't care what you tell the families."

He does though. Blackwatch may be Gabe's unit, but it's under Jack's command. Any letter sent to the families will have Jack's signature. Not Gabe's.

As far as anyone is concerned, Blackwatch doesn't even exist.

Gabe stands. Hands at his sides. Fists. Bruises in the shape of Jack's teeth in his one palm.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is better.

The two of them will never be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to write these angsty dad men. Did I do okay???
> 
> Comments, criticisms anything at all, just lemme know here or on tumblr @vrunkas


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